


helium shores

by rudimentaryflair



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Don't copy to another site, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Post-Inception, Road Trips, Sort Of, Symbolism, This is either the best or worst thing I've ever written, so much symbolism holy shit, there's also a ton of subtext too sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 14:57:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22712614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rudimentaryflair/pseuds/rudimentaryflair
Summary: The others have left already, gone to start new lives or return to old ones. In front of him, the carousel slows to a stop; Arthur feels it then, that change in the air, in his chest, his bones, his being. Something ended. Something started. His hands clench around the straps of his bag, and he breathes in, out.“So,” Eames says from beside him. “Where to now?”
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 91
Collections: Eames' Stupid Cupid 2020





	helium shores

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Eames' Stupid Cupid 2020 gift exchange, for capt-ann on Tumblr. The prompt was "pretending and pining".
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day! Hope you enjoy! <3

In Los Angeles, Arthur watches Dom’s retreating back with a heavy sense of finality. Two years ago, he would’ve been ecstatic to find Dom in America, but now, there is only the weight of exhaustion. For a man who’s just done the impossible, he feels oddly small.

Nonetheless, Inception is an impressive achievement. Arthur only needs to send out a word, and he’ll have job offers lining at his doorstep. Millions, if not billions of dollars, for half a day’s work. He could shake dreamshare to its core, shake the world, become its maker. Write himself into history. With that kind of money and influence, he could do anything. 

Arthur considers all this, then folds Inception up like an old blueprint and files it away. 

The others have left already, gone to start new lives or return to old ones. In front of him, the carousel slows to a stop; Arthur feels it then, that change in the air, in his chest, his bones, his being. Something ended. Something started. His hands clench around the straps of his bag, and he breathes in, out. 

“So,” Eames says from beside him. "Where to now?”

They go to the ocean.

Eames hotwires a Bentley and they tear out of the city towards the shoreline, the lights shrinking behind them until they are nothing but stars dotting the horizon. The salt air is like a slap to the face. Arthur takes off his shoes and sinks his toes into the sand, rolling the legs of his pants past his shins and wading into the shallows. He revels in the dark, the cold, in the way the humidity makes his clothes stick to his skin. 

“Reckon this would be better in the daytime,” Eames calls out from the shore. 

Arthur doesn’t answer, just stares out at the wide expanse of black water. He thinks that if he takes a few more steps, the sea will swallow him like a black hole, and he will disappear into the dark. Be pulled off the face of this earth.

Behind him, the headlights of the Bentley flash. Eames’ shadow briefly paints the waves. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Arthur says upon returning. 

Eames says, “Come with me.”

The highway stretches infinitely forward. Inception has taken something away from him. Made him pointless. An arrow with no direction. The streetlights turn the road into a ladder, and Arthur is suddenly reminded of that void in the water, of its vastness and possibility. Eames’ face is earnest, an arm slung over the top of the Bentley, and Arthur knows that if he gets into this car, he will be tying himself to Eames forever. 

He opens the passenger door, his fingers gripping the metal tightly. “I am not a man to be trifled with, Mr. Eames.”

“I am,” Eames says, sliding easily into the driver’s seat. “Trifle with me all you want, darling.”

They speed into the night.

The thing is, Arthur has known Eames for a long time. He’s got nothing to show for it. 

Eames is intangible. He is dandelion fluff in the wind. The air after it rains. Early morning dew. The instant before the sun rises. A dozen fleeting nothings that Arthur cannot grasp.

It had hit him one day, years before Inception, during a job. Rennes, 2005. It had been raining, and they’d absconded to a local cafe and Eames had _smiled_ a certain way, and suddenly Arthur couldn’t breathe. He tried to tuck the knowledge away, bury it deep in a grave, but like a bullet, it had been swift and final. 

The thing is, Arthur is in love. With whom, he cannot say. 

Arthur looks. He tries. But whenever he thinks he’s getting close, just as he’s on Eames’ doorstep, his knuckles an inch away from the wood, the wind shifts and he is lost again, stranded on a solitary island. Eames is a speck in the sky, a helium balloon, and Arthur is held hostage by gravity.

Eames wears obscurity like a three-piece suit. He blurs the edges of his person, keeps a mask on his face and an ace up his sleeve, and Arthur craves understanding him like he craves French poetry and cigarettes. It’s selfish, he thinks, to want to know his hurricanes as well as his sunny days. But Eames is a damn good forger, and Arthur is always one step behind.

The thing is, there is no thing. 

If Eames was going to fall in love, he’d have done it already. There’s no secret part of Arthur Eames hasn’t found. He is boring, upfront; he has strewn his deck of cards as far as it can go.

He has nothing else to give. 

On their way to Colorado, they decide to stop by Arches National Park.

“For the scrapbook,” Eames had said cheerily, after Arthur swatted his hand away from the radio for the third time. The air is hot and dry outside, the sun slowly baking them inside the car. Arthur puts on his sunhat before opening the door. 

“Christ, it’s boiling.” Eames squints at the sun and wipes the sweat off his forehead. “Kind of reminds you of Sydney, doesn’t it?”

“I try not to remember Sydney,” Arthur says dryly.

Eames immediately jogs over to the nearest arch and strikes a pose, demanding a photo, which Arthur takes for him. It would be easy to pretend they’re just two people on a road trip, sightseeing in America, but the boyish veneer Eames has on is cracked and worn from overuse. Arthur still plays his part flawlessly, snapping pictures, throwing the occasional jab here and there, knowing when to act scandalized and when to act coy. 

His love is difficult, like a spoiled child. Some days, Arthur has to grab its wrist and put his hand on its feverish forehead and tell it, calm, calm now; he has to say please, you are sick with it, this is killing you, take a rest. 

Today, it waits patiently in the backseat of the Bentley for the two of them to return, three hours later, with a full camera and their ankles covered with Utah dust ― Eames playfully tries to change the station again and only stops when Arthur threatens to shoot off his toes ― and then it sits there, quietly, for the drive east. 

It is three in the morning when they stop at a gas station by the interstate. Eames has meandered into the store, no doubt spending an unreasonable amount of money on chips and soda while Arthur refills the tank. He yawns, unsuccessfully trying to blink the sleep from his eyes. 

Eames returns with his arms full of candy and two bottles of a bluish, off-brand soda. He is also swinging a large bag of chips.

Arthur takes in the contents of his purchase. “Twizzlers?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Of course,” Eames says. “Who do you think I am?”

And it must be the late hours, or lack of sleep getting to him, because the way Eames says those words so carelessly kills the contentedness in his chest. Ice creeps up the veins in his throat.

“I would know if you showed me,” Arthur says harshly. The moment it leaves his mouth, he wants to snatch it back.

“Sorry?” Eames asks, eyes wide. 

Arthur looks away and slams the fuel door shut with too much force. “Forget it.”

“Arthur, darling ― ”

“Eames,” he snaps, and Eames stares at him. “Leave it. Forget I said anything.”

Eames studies him carefully, and then the concerned expression on his face melts into something more pensive. His posture slackens, and Arthur thinks that this is exactly what made Eames so formidable in dreamshare. 

“Alright,” Eames says. And then, “I must say, dear, sleep-deprivation isn't very flattering on you.”

This time, when they get in the car, Eames doesn’t touch the radio.

They are on a rooftop in Glenwood when Eames says, quietly, “That Eames, you know. He’s likable.”

Arthur pauses, a bottle of scotch halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean?”

“I mean people like him,” Eames says. “He’s charming. Witty. Pleasant to be around. ” 

“Pleasant to be around,” Arthur echoes.

“He’s someone you could love,” Eames says, tilting his head to the side. It’s completely wrong. Off-script. 

Arthur sets down the scotch and sits up straighter. Looks into Eames’ eyes and wills him to understand. 

“You’re not the man I fell in love with,” he says. _I don’t know who I fell in love with,_ he doesn’t say.

“And you’re not the man who fell in love with me,” Eames counters.

“I’ve shown you everything I have to show.”

“No,” Eames says, “you haven’t.”

The alcohol smears Arthur’s train of thought. He searches his mind for something he’s hidden, but finds it short of secrets. Because it’s Eames, and Arthur doesn’t say no to Eames, can’t, not since France. He thinks that Eames would know if he were keeping any skeletons alongside his suits, but he isn’t, he’s not Eames, who lives in layered lives ― he is Arthur, boring Arthur, no-imagination Arthur, head over heels hopelessly-in-love Arthur, and ― 

Oh. Oh. 

Arthur swallows a mouthful of scotch, sweeps forward, and kisses Eames. 

It’s only for a second. He pulls back just as quickly, washes Eames out of his mouth with more scotch; if he’d stayed longer, gotten a taste, an inkling, he would never have been able to stop. 

Arthur wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Now I have,” he says.

For a moment, Eames just looks at him. And then he grabs Arthur by the lapel with one hand, the other coming up to cradle the base of his skull, and they are kissing again, Eames thumb brushing against the joint of his jaw. The scotch is knocked off the roof and into the bushes below.

When they break apart, Eames’ lips are red. Arthur’s heart is hammering so loudly in his chest, he’s half-afraid that Eames can hear it, can hear the way it spells out his name in frenetic beats. The sun is setting west, a thousand shades of gold and purple streaking across the sky. 

Beside Arthur, Eames straightens his shirt. They both turn their heads to watch the sun plunge behind the mountains, and Arthur thinks, this, this is what I will settle for. The horizon, instead of infinity. A place to come home to.

“So,” Eames says breathlessly. "Where to now?”

**Author's Note:**

> No, I don't know what I'm doing lol
> 
> While I'm not sure how well-executed this fic is, I had a great time writing it! It was super fun trying out this new simplistic, prosey/subtexty style, and I think I might be incorporating more it into into my future works - it really pushed me out of my comfort zone, and it was interesting to explore. Thank you, capt-ann, for inspiring me with your prompt! :)
> 
> EDIT: I changed some of the place names and fixed some lines that were bothering me.  
> 
> 
> I'm rudimentaryflair on Tumblr.


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